


Kala: Dal Khichdi

by KinoGlowWorm



Series: Room at the Table: Cooking with the Sensates [2]
Category: Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Comfort Food, Cooking, F/M, Food, Indian food, Recipes, Sick Character, The Smell of Frying Onions, Vacation, Vegetarians & Vegans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:31:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7958884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KinoGlowWorm/pseuds/KinoGlowWorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kala and Wolfgang are on vacation in a lakeside cabin in Finland, but Wolfgang has come down with a cold. Kala makes him the dish her parents made for her when she was sick growing up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kala: Dal Khichdi

“I don’t know if I’m all watery like this because of you or because of me,” Kala said as she struggled to keep her eyes open and Wolfgang sneezed from the couch in response. She was chopping onions somewhat haphazardly in front of her, vision blurred from the tears streaming from what seemed to be all parts of her face. 

“Here, let me do it,” he croaked hoarsely, getting up and crossing the short distance to what served as a kitchen in the single room of the tiny cabin. It wasn’t much more than a glorified hot plate, a handwashing sink and tiny refrigerator tucked under just enough counter for a single cutting board, but it would certainly suffice. “If you cut it more efficiently, you don’t have to spend so long with onion eyes.”

“Go back to the sofa and lie down,” she said, pointing emphatically with the small knife. “You need to rest or you’re not going to get any better.”

“I can’t understand how you can work with such a small knife. Here, let me find you something better,” he said, still hovering near her, sorting through the drawer of kitchen tools. 

“The bigger one is over there, but it’s not as sharp as this one.” Kala pointed, huffing a sigh of frustration as he began coughing hoarsely into his shoulder. “Now would you please go lie down!” 

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. In that moment, she wished his cold away not just for his comfort, but for her own. They had been holed up for three days now in this lakeside cabin, after a conference Kala had attended in Helsinki, and Wolfgang had come down with the aches and sniffles on day two. She wasn’t quite sure how she was going to survive the next four days of his restless grouching if he didn’t get better soon. 

“Weren’t you watching a movie with Capheus? One of those movies with the things blowing up all the time?” she asked, trying to mask the exasperation in her voice, washing her hands quickly in the tiny sink.

“Yes, but the smell of onion is so strong it keeps pulling me back here,” he said. His words came out as half complaint, half apology as he dropped himself back onto the clean, gray lines of the sofa across the single room of the cabin. “And you,” he added softly and she sighed a little more generously as she watched him sit up and wrap the woven wool blanket tightly around his shoulders. The itch of the heavy wool tickled at her skin as she walked over to him to get a tissue and blow her nose.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly as he reached up to pull her down onto the couch with him. “I’m ruining the romantic week I promised you,” he added as he stroked her arm.

“You didn’t choose to get sick,” she said evenly, adjusting the way the blanket crossed in front of him as she perched, facing him on the couch. “The first few days of this trip was,” she stumbled in trying to find an appropriately ecstatic word, but settled for seeing the impish smirk bloom on his chapped lips for just a moment and smiled back with him. At the thought, she felt the frustration melting out through her skin where he touched it. “I’m not miserable even now, but you’ll make things easier on both of us if you stop fighting the idea of being sick so your body can actually fight whatever virus is waging war on this holiday.”

He grunted unintelligibly, disheartened, in response, then was taken over by a heavy, wet cough that ran sharp needles through her throat.

“Let me get you some more tea,” she said, looking down into the empty mug sitting on the floor beside the sofa and picking it up. His face still looked fallen, beyond being tired, but he said nothing.

Kala poured off another mug of strong ginger tea, adding a lemon wedge and a big spoonful of honey to it before returning to the couch where he had settled, lying curled on his side, his eyes fixed disconsolately on nowhere in particular. She set the mug gently on the light-colored wood of the floor beside him. His eyes flashed into focus on her for just a moment as she stroked his hair back from his damply overheated forehead. They slowly slipped closed. She kissed his forehead gently before returning the few steps to the kitchen.

Asleep or visiting elsewhere: she wasn’t quite sure where his mind was right now and didn’t dare pull him back into his body now that he seemed ready to let go, even if just a little bit. Wolfgang had been enthusiastic about doing most of the cooking for the trip, but she had planned on making this one day they were there. Kala could take or leave cooking, but he actually enjoyed it, and had some skill as well. Khichdi was one of a very small handful of dishes she was comfortable making; as a recipe it was beyond undemanding to forgiving. It was one of the first things she thought of when either her body or her heart ached. 

Setting the large saucepan to heat on the burner, she thought back to rare days home sick from school, being the one on the couch as her mother cooked khichdi for her. With her father in the restaurant downstairs, there was little need for her mother to cook much. Her mother worked in the front of the house in the restaurant, but had somewhat more flexibility to nip upstairs to check on her or her sister when they were sick earlier in the day. The dish molded to fit each particular symptom: fiercely spicy for congestion; mild, almost unspiced and extra mushy for an upset stomach; an extra dab of butter on top for an aching heart.

The cumin seeds Kala had thrown into the pot began to sizzle and pop. She scraped the chopped onions in on top of them and turned the heat down slightly. As the smell of frying onions danced in her nose, she found herself smiling softly, wrapped in memories of her mother and her father like the warm, woollen blanket. The dinner Wolfgang had made their first night staying in the cabin had also involved cooking onions down slowly into blissful, buttery sweetness for what had seemed like hours. She wondered, in passing, if the smell of frying onions was as comforting and inviting to everyone.

Glad that she had grated a large measure of ginger earlier in the day, she chopped up the tomato, carrot, and chili as she waited for the onions to soften and brown. They’d managed to dig up a small Indian grocery in Helsinki to get a few ingredients that hadn’t been available in either the _kauppahalli_ or the big grocery store. 

They’d ended up chatting for a while with the auntie that ran the quiet shoebox of a store, who had been both puzzled and charmed by Wolfgang’s perfect Hindi. With neither of them having more than three words of Finnish, it was actually the language they had best in common. They’d explained it away with him having grown up in India with a diplomat mother, such that he spoke like a native with only a hint of a German accent. It was a fiction they’d grown quite fond of. 

The shop hadn’t been able to provide quite everything Kala had hoped. According to the shopkeeper, one couldn’t get the kind of green chilis in Finland that were almost ubiquitous in the recipes she liked, but that was only the beginning of her litany of the ways the produce there paled in comparison to what you got back home. She carried another small, green pepper that she recommended, but apologized in advance that it may not be up to the standard she was used to at home.

Kala held up a second chili, trying to weigh Wolfgang’s congestion against his capacity for spice, which she hadn’t quite grasped yet. She believed him when he said that he was more comfortable with spicy food than most Germans he knew, but it also seemed to be that what was normal to her teetered right on the edge of his comfort zone. She decided the best way to split the difference would be to serve the extra pepper in thin slices on the side that either of them could stir into their own bowls.

As she scraped in the ginger, carrot, chili and tomato, the pot hissed like the rocks in the sauna out back of the cabin after pouring water on them. She added a few solid shakes of turmeric and stirred, watching the deep gold stain every morsel in the pot, including the spoon and the pot itself.

Setting the spoon in a bowl, she turned her attention back to the mung dal and rice that had been soaking in a bowl on the table. She strained off the water into the sink, holding her hand against the edge of the bowl to prevent the grains from escaping down the drain. The pot crackled brightly as she scraped in the wet grains, stirring them golden for a minute or two before adding an eyeballed measure of water and a generous sprinkle of frozen peas.

As the richly-colored liquid in the pot began to boil, she set the lid on the pot and turned the heat down as low as it went, setting a timer for herself to come back in twenty minutes. Wolfgang was still curled peacefully on the couch, his face wearing the soft guilelessness that sleep seemed to offer him almost uniquely. Part of her wanted to sit with him there, to share that with him, to hold the sanctity of that space for him so that he felt safe enough, but knew it would be better to just let him be.

The sky was starting to glow peach and gold above the dark serrations of the treetop silhouettes that edged the lake, reflected perfectly in the glassy surface of the water. The sun had already slipped behind the trees and the chill of the air bit into her as she stepped out onto the porch. She reached back inside for the first warm layer she could find, grabbing the red and black plaid wool jacket that Wolfgang had worn earlier, still carrying his scent on it as she put it on.

The silence of the remote location had unnerved her and her urban sensibilities at first. It heightened the sounds that were there until there was almost something sinister about them: the call of a bird, the crack of a limb somewhere in the forest. All she could hear right now as she walked down the narrow, wooden pier was the quiet lap of the lake against the rocks on its shore. The cool of the wood against her bare feet was surprisingly pleasant, especially with the warm air trapped around her in the jacket.

She sat down at the edge of the pier and dipped her big toe experimentally into the still water, pulling it back immediately at the frigid temperature and tucking it under herself. She watched intently as the ripples from it spread calmly across the surface, warping the reflections of the colorful streaks of cloud and sky, the dark angles of the trees. Wolfgang had jumped in headlong for a swim their first day here, but the autumnal chill that had set in at this point in the year challenged even his rugged veneer.

They’d been treated to the aurora their first night, the fleeting magic of the shimmering, dancing colors against the blanket of stars both otherworldly and somehow familiar before they danced away back into space. Magnetic disruptions crashing into charged particles in the atmosphere: that’s all they were. And, yet, they were ineffably something more, far greater than the sum of those parts. 

The timer in Kala’s pocket began to chime softly. Reading the chill in the air, she collected up an armload of firewood from the stacks against the house as she headed for the porch. She was greeted by the familiar spice-buttered scent of the khichdi as she stepped inside. She tried to set down the logs as quietly as possible next to the small, black-enameled woodstove, but one of the logs rolled down, clattering awkwardly to the tile base below the stove.

Wolfgang sprang up at the sound of the wood hitting the floor, eyes searching the room for any sign of danger. She could feel him release his alertness as their eyes met across the short diagonal of the room, his breathing and heart rate returning to normal. His cold symptoms began to migrate dully across the room to her.

“I’m sorry, I thought,” he began.

“It’s alright, you can relax,” she said, walking back over to the stove. “It was nothing. Just the firewood. I thought we’d need a fire again tonight, so I brought some more in.”

Her mouth began to water as she lifted the lid of the pot and stirred. The water had largely been absorbed, leaving the rice and dal appealingly mushy. She felt hands on her hips and Wolfgang hung over her shoulder as she turned around. She hadn’t even heard him get up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You know, about earlier.”

“I know you came in with plans and expectations about this, and that it’s hard for you to let them go,” she said, turning towards him and running a hand along his cheek. “I know you just want this to be the best it can be. But holding onto those things - those ideas - so tightly isn’t what’s going to make this a good trip. I like your grand schemes, but I like them because they’re yours rather than because they’re grand. I’m happy just being here with you without other distractions, even if that means doing very little.”

She rested the back of her hand against his forehead for a moment.

“I think your fever might have broken,” she said.

“I don’t know that I feel any better yet,” he said, sniffling laboriously through his stuffy nose.

“I’ve got just the thing for that,” Kala said, and reached for a bowl.

* * *

** Dal Khichdi **  
_Serves 2-3_  
_Time: about 40 minutes_ _Vegetarian/vegan, gluten-free, nut-free_

There are nearly as many khichdi recipes as people who make it, quite possibly more, but most regions of India have some version of this dal and rice dish. There are many variations on the name as well (khichari, khichuri, khichri - it’s also the grandaddy of British kedgeree). I learned to make this dish from an old roommate, but it’s not a dish I really ever measured anything for (other than using the same thing to measure the dal and rice to ensure equal volumes) which made writing it down challenging. It serves as quick, one-pot comfort food for when you’re busy, tired, sick, or just in need of snuggly food. You can make it with or without veggies, spicy or not, mushy or not according to your taste/convenience. Check out the Indian food bloggers listed below for more info about switching it up!

_Recipe adapted from:_

  * Swasthi’s Recipes
  * Manjula’s Kitchen
  * Saffron Trail



**Ingredients:**

  * ½ c. split mung dal* 
  * ½ c. rice (This can be any kind of rice or even a combination of different rices)
  * 1 Tblsp. ghee or vegetable oil
  * ¼ tsp. ground turmeric
  * 1 tsp salt
  * 3 cups water 
_Optional:_
  * 1 small onion, diced finely (~½ c., chopped)
  * 1 medium tomato, chopped (~½ c., chopped)
  * 1 tsp. Cumin seeds or ground cumin
  * 2 tsp. Fresh ginger, grated or finely minced
  * ½-1 cup fresh or frozen mixed vegetables in bite sized pieces (e.g. peas, green beans, carrot, cauliflower, winter squash, but you have room to get creative in your ½-1 cup)
  * 1-2 green chilis (Thai bird or serrano chilis are good alternatives to Indian hari mirch)
  * ¼ tsp. Ground cayenne
  * 1 tsp. Garam masala
  * Fresh cilantro, finely chopped (topping)
_Recipe Notes:_
  * *Mung beans/dal may not be easy for everyone to find, but they are the most commonly used pulse for this dish. They’re available at most South or East Asian markets. If you can’t find those, there are also a number of dal khichdi recipes that instead use red lentils (masoor dal), which are available in most US supermarkets (I can reliably find them with the bagged dry beans). Here’s one of those recipes. 
  * Most of the recipes use a pressure cooker to make this, but I’m writing purely unpressurized instructions. If you have a pressure cooker and want to try it that way, check out any of the links above. On a related note, if you can explain how to translate the measurement of pressure cooking times from whistles to minutes to me and my Instant Pot, we would both be grateful.
  * Water content in these recipes varies widely to cook’s preference. Some are looking for kind a mashed potato mushiness, others want something soupier. I like it somewhere in between, which is where this recipe gets you, but it’s worth playing around with to see what you like.



Start by setting the rice and dal to soak. Rinse them in cool water until the it runs more or less clear. Rinsing them in a mesh sieve is easy, but you can also swish them around in the bowl or pot and pour off the water several times until it’s clear. Add enough water to cover well and set aside to soak for 20-30 minutes.

Prepare ginger and any vegetables being used. Heat the oil in a large saucepan over medium high heat. When the oil starts to shimmer, add the cumin seeds, if using. When they start to crackle and pop, add the onion, turn down the heat to medium-low and stir occasionally until it starts to get soft and lightly browned. Add the ginger, chili, tomato, salt and any vegetables or ground spices you might be using. Cook, stirring frequently, until the tomatoes start to break down. 

Drain the soaked dal and rice and add to the pot, stirring frequently for 1-2 minutes. Add the 3 cups of water and cover (you can also throw in veggies, particularly small frozen ones, at this point). Once the pot has reached boiling, turn down the heat to low and leave covered for 20 or so minutes. It will be fairly wet, but the key is that both the rice and dal are tender to mushy. Give it a good stir to make sure all the ingredients that got separated out during cooking get evenly distributed throughout. Stirring will also help give it a creamy texture. 

Adjust the salt as needed and spoon into bowls. Top with chopped cilantro, extra chili, and maybe a bit of butter as desired. Eat it hot and enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to PreRaphaelites for helping me prevent this turning into an angst-fest and for discussing the versatility of the humble mung bean with me.


End file.
